


Something Magical About

by Reyavie



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:52:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyavie/pseuds/Reyavie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something magical about her. Or several somethings, Alistair believes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Magical About

**Author's Note:**

> Reply to Suilven's Ten Minute Challenge on CMDA. Ten minutes to draw up a drabble/one-shot. Grey Warden is Samahl Surana from A Few Details Away.

There's something magical about her hands. The way they move, maybe. They move so easily, so steadily, one movement after the other like a melody or some predestined dance. It's a little hypnotizing, he thinks. The way they weave in and out, the way they touch and whisper or that way in which they entwine just right with his. Maybe it's the form too. They're small – long fingers but small hands. He has asked her more than once if she has ever played an instrument instead of a weapon. She has the right hands for it; perfect form, perfect shape. He almost imagines he is an harp sometimes, one cord after the other, one touch after the other, until he's both instrument and melody. She would be the greatest player, his small Warden.

_Oh there you go again thinking weird stuff.. do you ever stop?_

Of course, he doesn't. He doesn't think weird stuff. He thinks with his heart, with his skin and fingers, with every inch of his body because he hates that closed box which he sees so often around him. He doesn't think oddly. He just feels everything and that's mostly hard to explain so he doesn't.

Ah but her hands… he finds them fascinating, really. How can such a small part of her anatomy draw such attention from him. Maybe it's the color, he thinks. Unlike him, white face and palled skinned, she's tanned, so brown and healthy. Like a painting against white sheets or a flower against the earth.

She thinks he has her in this really high pedestal none can reach, not even her. Especially not her. This is something she has spoken a thousand times before.

But when her hands hold his son for the first time, when they push the small form against his chest, _hold him, he's not going to bite you,_ when there's that small little breath of life against his own, he wants to tell her just how she's both floor, pedestal and statue. Higher than anything he can reach or deserve. However, he doesn't speak. There's something covering his throat and his voice deserted him, leaving to some place far, far away while forgetting to leave an address. He's smiling and crying, overall being himself, while he realizes something he has never before. Once upon a time, the man had known himself to be happy and lucky. But never ever had he known just how much until that exact moment.

She doesn't know how much he thanks her every day. And, every day, he thanks her silently, a kiss on each hand as the sun begins to fill their room and she's still against him. The world needs to stop spinning, he thinks then.

"Morning, Alistair," she mumbles. Soft voice and mumbled because he's the morning person of the house and it's still too early for someone like her.

He grabs a piece of the linens and starts caressing her cheek with it, _calling, calling because the Earth is that annoying_ and their son needs to wake too. Her eyes open and she glares as if he's to blame for the sun's existence.

"Morning, Samahl," he says anyway, staring at her eyes just because.  
 _  
_ _There's something magical about those eyes too._


End file.
